


The Boxer

by cablesscutie



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, M/M, Personal Growth, Therapy, it's all about the emotional journey here folks, there's like two seconds of Bitty/Parse but it's not really a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23706739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cablesscutie/pseuds/cablesscutie
Summary: Kent Parson has spent his whole life bargaining with himself over how many of his dreams he's allowed to live and how much of himself he's allowed to be.  The introduction of the Samwell Men's Hockey Team makes him start to think he's been short-changing himself for a while now.
Relationships: Adam "Holster" Birkholtz/Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Happiness, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44





	1. I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles

**Author's Note:**

> This fic brought to you by the summer I spent listening to Simon & Garfunkel on repeat and thinking about Kent Parson a lot.

The puck leaves Kent’s stick, sailing towards the net, headed for the space over Rask’s shoulder, and Kent doesn’t even need to watch it go in to know it’s headed right for the back of the net. He’s already dropped his stick, hands rising above his head in a V for Kent “Victory” Parson, when the horn sounds, lights flashing around the stadium and the crowd booing furiously. Boston _hates_ him, and he _loves_ it. They aren’t even in the same fucking conference, but he is _loathed_ here and the New Yorker in him eats it up.

And it’s probably an asshole move to celly prematurely. But when he turns around and skates face first into Chara’s gloved fist, he can’t help but think _“Not cool, bro.”_ He falls right on his ass, because Chara’s fucking huge and so it never actually turns into a fight, but his whole face is kind of throbbing, and his tailbone is sore, and his dignity is more than a little bruised. That clip is definitely gonna be featured on Sportscenter tomorrow, and the chirping will never end.

Winning in regulation helps to take the sting out though.

* * *

After they get back to the hotel, the group chat starts lighting up with talks about where they’re gonna go celebrate.

Swoops: Sports bars r out

Swoops: Cap will get his pretty face caved the rest of the way in

Java: no puck bunnies there either

Nokia: Irish pubs =/= good

Swoops: truuuuu

Timbits: ???

Timbits: y no pubs?

Parse: My people will fuck you up. We’re a drunk and fighty population.

Swoops: o yea that y u showed chara whos boss 2nite?

Parse: Shut the FUCK up.

Parse: You text like a thirteen year old.

Swoops: fck u

Timbits: Irish people like hockey???

Nokia: I blame the Dropkick Murphys

Java: the fuckers

Parse: Are there even bars besides Irish pubs & sports bars in this city??

Swoops: probs nt

Nokia: shit. What about the rookies? They aren’t 21.

Parse: Shit, didn’t think of that.

Timbits: I found a place!

Timbits: It’s 18+ on Fridays!

The rookies have to wait in a separate line to get in since they’re under 21, and Parse, as their captain, opts to wait with them and make sure they don’t get into trouble outside. He’s not super encouraged by the place’s outside. Compared to the high end Vegas nightlife Kent’s used to, this place looks like a dump. It’s next to a mattress store, and there’s a guitar center across the street, and the cover charge is ten dollars. He does not have high hopes for this night.

It beats his alternative plan of driving up to Samwell to visit Zimms though, and nothing in this city stays open too late anyway, so the boys will be forced to head back to the hotel by 2. In the meantime, he’s surrounded by college students, some of whom have clearly pregamed for the occasion. It’s vaguely amusing to watch them pretend to be sober whenever security comes by. They aren’t very effective. He elbows Timbits.

“Remember training camp, when I told you guys to party smart, and a bunch of guys didn’t and got sent back to the AHL?”

“Yeah?” He nods at a group of guys in pastel button-downs passing around a Powerade bottle as though that will fool anyone.

“That’s about the level of ‘smart’ those guys had.” Timbits glances behind him and when he turns back around, his eyebrows are halfway up his forehead.

“For shame, bros. For shame.” Kent puts an arm around his rookie.

“See this is why I like you, kid.” He pokes him in the temple. “You _think_.”

Kent regrets that praise as soon as he enters the club.

The stamp pressed to the back of his hand as he hands over a ten reads “PRIDE” in purple letters, and as he and the rookies follow the thumping music down stairs and ramps, Kent seems to be the only one picking up on the fact that there are posters advertising events plastered with drag queens and shirtless go-go boys. Instead, they seem to only pick up on “Dude, there’s air hockey!” “stripper poles - sweeeet!” He figures he’ll be the only one remotely interested in what happens on the poles though, seeing as...

Timbits brought them to a fucking gay bar.

Because God hates Kent.

He has no fucking clue how long it’s going to take for the dudes to pick up on the fact that they’re in a gay bar, or what their reactions will be afterwards, but they’re too spread out and too entrenched in the party for him to calmly regroup them. So he hopes for the best and makes for the bar. At least the rookies will be good tonight though. As soon as they walked in, the bouncer drew thick black Xs on both of their hands with a jumbo Sharpie. There would be no underage drinking on this roadie. Kent orders a vodka cranberry. He figures if nothing else, he doesn’t have to pretend he doesn’t like cocktails here.

When he makes it back to the dance floor, it seems that the guys still haven’t figured it out yet. Swoops is just dancing with their other liney, goofing around and not really trying to look good. The rookies and younger guys seem happy with the various co-eds they’ve found on the floor, and Kent feels a little better thinking that if anyone knows they’re in a gay bar, they at least don’t seem to care.

So he lets himself unwind a little.

He orders another drink.

He lets his eyes drift over the crowd from his perch at the bar.

He’d have to be blind to miss the guy swinging around the pole in front of him. A few people had come and gone in the time Kent had been hanging around, but this guy is the first one up who seems to have any real idea of what to do with himself up there. He’s popping and swaying his hips with the music, swinging himself around with ease, all elegant movements and toned limbs. The guy’s friends approve of his dancing as well, hooting and hollering and stumbling all over themselves in a general display of drunken enthusiasm. In contrast to his mammoth friends, the guy is small enough that Kent thinks even he could easily cup that perky little butt right in his hands and grab on. And Kent’s a little surprised to find that he wants to. The bass is rumbling low in Kent’s chest and the heat of the crowded room and heady feel of the alcohol is making him feel daring. It’s been too long and this guy is _cute_ , and catches Kent staring, smiles at him upside down as he bends back and back and back _why is he so flexible?_ And then cute guy is snapping up straight again for the end of the song. His friends whoop and he accepts a hand down from the guy in the salmon shorts and muscle tank.

Then cute guy is making his way to the bar, making his way towards _Kent_ , looking at him with no small amount of curiosity, and fuck his teammates, he really doesn’t care what they think tonight.

“Hey,” he says as the guy steps up to the bar and waves at the bartender. “Those were some pretty sick moves up there.” Cute guy orders a water and smiles, surprisingly shy, as he turns to face Kent.

“Oh, that was just…” he waves his hand. “My friends put me up there, so I just...I dunno.” He laughs accepting the water bottle and twisting the cap off. “It was fun, whatever it was.”

“Sexy as hell is what it was,” Kent insists, too honest in his lack of practice, shifting closer and feeling a thrill when cute guy does the same and has to look up to meet his eyes.

“Well, I guess I won’t argue the compliment.”

“You definitely shouldn’t.” Kent hopes that in another line or two he can have his tongue in cute guy’s mouth so they can get this night started finally. He means to look him over and get another look at the legs inside those sinfully short shorts, but his eyes get caught on the worn cutoff t-shirt he’s sporting. SAMWELL MEN’S HOCKEY. Kent’s mouth goes dry. “You - uh - you like hockey?” he croaks. Cute guy nods, brushing his sweaty bangs back.

“Sure do! I play right wing. Out with some teammates tonight after we crushed BU earlier.”

_Fuck. Fuck, fucking fuck me. He’s a goddamn hockey player._ Kent can feel his lungs going tight, heart speeding up. His hands are clammy against the glass he’s holding. He just hit on a hockey player. In a gay bar. He’s definitely just outed himself to a stranger and his team is here and _fuckfuckfuck_.

Kent leaves his glass on the bar and books it away from cute guy, making a beeline for the restroom. He hears a shout behind him that he hopes is just someone pissed at being shoved out of the way. There isn’t much privacy, just three gender neutral stalls and a couple of sinks, not even a door to really block it from the game area where Kent knows some of the older guys are camped out playing foosball and drinking beer. He locks himself in the handicap stall and leans back against the rickety metal door, trying to collect himself. He should’ve just stuck with the vets, should’ve kept a low profile. Maybe there was still time to go join them. Maybe cute guy hadn’t even put together that it’s him yet.

“Hello?”a voice calls from the doorway. His breath catches. “Are you alright? I just- I’m sorry if it was something I said?” Cute guy sounds so genuinely concerned, Kent can’t quite bring himself to freeze him out.

“It wasn’t you.” He says. He can’t hear anything besides the distant thump of dance music, but a pair of sneakers appear in his line of sight under the stall door.

“Do you want to talk about what it was then?”

“Oh yeah, that’s definitely why I locked myself in the bathroom.” A loud sigh.

“Well do you think that it would help if you _did_ talk to someone? I’m told I give pretty decent advice.” He weighs his options. Chances are the guy is gonna figure it out at some point anyway, given that the club is crawling with Aces, and he really does seem like a nice person, and - okay even Kent can admit that this isn’t healthy behavior and he should probably not be alone right now. He reaches out and flips the latch on the stall, letting the door swing in a little bit. Cute guy slips inside and locks the door behind himself again, leaning against the wall opposite where Kent has his arms crossed over his chest. There’s still no recognition in his expression.

“Rough day?” Kent huffs a laugh, feels bad for how bitter it comes out. This guy really doesn’t need to be putting up with his mood tonight.

“No, actually. I’m celebrating.”

“So it was…”

“I’m not out.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. And like, my friends are all out there, so I wasn’t really planning on hitting on anyone tonight.” One of cute guy’s eyebrows creeps up.

“You’re at a gay club with your straight friends who think you’re also straight?”

“They might not know it’s a gay club? Some of the guys found it because we needed a place that was eighteen plus.”

“Oh good lord.” Cute guy looks up at the ceiling like he can’t believe Kent’s friends are actually that dumb. Kent deeply wishes he couldn’t believe it either.

“What about your friends? Those guys know?”

“Well duh, that’s why we’re here! And I mean, “One in four, maybe more,” so...I’m not the only one on the team. By far.”

“Oh. Wow. That’s - That’s awesome. I wish I had that.” He scuffs his sneaker along the floor.

“You know, most people ‘round here don’t really care much ‘bout things like that. ‘Bout people like us living our lives.” Kent lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Yeah, well, it’s not really them I’m most concerned about.”

“Family?” Cute guy has this soft look on his face, like he understands, really and truly, and is aching for this poor closet case in front of him. If anyone has earned his full honesty, it’s him, and he’s so _tired_ all of a sudden. The truth just slips out.

“ESPN.” Cute guy looks so confused, and is opening his mouth to probably say just that, but Kent lets the words keep coming. “I play hockey. Professionally. I, uh - I can’t really be out. I’m not ready to be first, it’s so much pressure and I don’t even have a boyfriend to feel like I’m sacrificing my career for _something_ , so I have to keep my mouth shut.”

“Oh. My.” And here it comes. “I’m so sorry to have to ask but…” He’s bracing himself. “What team do you play for?” _What?_

“What?” He looks up, and cute guy is flushing, hands covering his face a little.

“Lord I feel ridiculous, I’m so sorry, I forgot. It’s Boston, you’re a Bruin.”

“Um. No. _Fuck_ the Bruins.”

“Oh. So then…”

“You really don’t know who I am?” The guy shrugs, helpless.

“Nope. I dunno much about the NHL. Didn’t even know who Bad Bob was until I started at Samwell.” And triple double fuck him. Right. _“One in four, maybe more”_ \- _Samwell_ \- fucking _Samwell_. This guy was on Jack’s team, and those guys were Jack’s friends out there, he was actually going to die. But in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Kent Parson, Las Vegas Aces,” he introduces himself properly, holding out his hand to shake.

“Eric Bittle, Samwell Men’s Hockey.” He feels the calluses on his palm, incongruous with his stature and the softness that clings to the rest of him. “Hmm...Kent Parson...that actually sounds a little familiar. You must be some kind of legend, I don’t hardly know anybody.” Eric smiles like he’s joking and Kent might be a little in love. Because he genuinely has no clue.

So he lets his grin turn salacious and crosses the few feet to where Eric is still leaning, stepping into his space until the fabric of their shirts just start to catch against each other. “You know, I think I owe you a dance,” Kent says, encouraged by the way Eric’s eyes go dark, cheeks pinking.

“Hm, is that so?”

“Yeah.”

“Well I guess I oughta let you make amends.” Kent reaches down and takes Eric’s hand, leading him out of the bathroom past a couple of girls in snapbacks fixing their lipstick in the mirrors.

Out on the dance floor, Kent pulls Eric right into his arms. His teammates are pretty oblivious to their surroundings anyway. Everyone looks pretty gone, whether drunk or distracted by girls, they’re clearly occupied, and in the crowd, Kent is well aware he blends in. He plans to take thorough advantage of the semi-privacy to get his hands all over Eric’s lean body. Eric seems pretty game for it too, pressing in so they’re hips to hips, arms draped around Kent’s neck. The beat is low and slow, bass vibrating through the floor. It’s a college gay club thousands of miles from his home, but Kent is feeling like he’d been born right on the dancefloor with the way he’s feeling the music from the soles of his feet up to his teeth and holding Eric, small and warm in his arms. They’re both sticky with sweat, skin catching and pulling whenever they shift against each other, and the drag of it makes him want more. He wonders if Eric would be amenable to revisiting the handicap stall later.

As if reading Kent’s mind, Eric looks up and starts tilting his face against Kent’s, noses bumping sweetly. He doesn’t push, just holds as still as he can while keeping up with the song, and then Eric’s mouth is on his, warm and wet. It’s a little clumsy, and Kent gets the feeling that Eric might not do this very often, but it’s been a long time since Kent could have this fumbling first taste of someone. Eric keeps his tongue to himself, so Kent follows his lead, but he is brave enough to reach one hand down to get a handful of that adorable behind.

And then just about the worst possible thing that could happen - as usual - happens. It’s unmistakably Jack behind him, saying,

“Bittle! Hey! We have to go, come on.” And Eric is looking over Kent’s shoulder with wide eyes, still breathing hard and trying to blink himself back together.

“Um. What?”

“Frogs are fighting, we gotta go.”

“Oh. Um.” He looks up at Kent, and must see the panic-stricken expression on his face because he doesn’t try to introduce them or say anything to Jack about _check it out - the Aces are here!_ He just squeezes Kent’s arm and looks at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, I really do have to go, the freshmen are just impossible this year.” Kent nods, not wanting to risk his voice being recognized, although Jack is standing so close behind him he can feel the heat off his clothes and he _doesn’t even know it’s Kent how many times did he say he’d know him anywhere was that just a bunch of bullshit or have they really changed so much that they’re strangers like this or - worse thought - does Jack really hate him so much he’d ignore Kent right under his nose?_ And Eric maneuvers himself around Kent and disappears into the crowd, trotting at Jack’s heels. Kent remembers that keenly, and briefly feels sorry for the guy.


	2. When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy

Kent remembers all too well what it was like to be hung up over Jack Zimmermann. There’s a part of him that isn’t sure he’ll ever be completely over it. But for the most part, he’s moved on. He fucks around, he goes to therapy, rinse and repeat. For all he worries that he’ll be fucked up about Juniors for the rest of his life, he never even thinks about it in daylight. It’s just that thoughts and regrets seem heavier when they’re weighing down the empty other side of the bed.

Back in the Q, hockey had been their whole world, but Jack had felt like the limitless universe. When he looked at him, Kent saw _possibility_. He would dig his fingers into Jack’s shoulders and cling tight, and see countless years sprawling out ahead of them. He could feel himself creeping closer and closer to being able to have everything he’d ever wanted. There was this beautiful boy who he could swear loved him underneath how goddamn scared he was of his father’s shadow, and the small salary they got in the Q was okay - it was better than being home busing tables and eating his mother out of house and home - but he could see an NHL contract heading his way, and with it everything his mother was working herself to the bone chasing after.

He’d send his sister to the best school she could get into, and she’d never worry about buying books, or having time to study. He’d buy his mother a new house. Maybe not bigger, she’d hate that, but somewhere better. Find a cute little town with shops for her to wander past on weekends, library book clubs, maybe near the ocean. Yes, that was it. He’d buy his mother a little house on the beach, and she’d stop working overtime at the hospital, and every Christmas, Katie would come home from school to visit, and Kent and Jack would fly out from wherever, and they’d all be _happy_.

It had been a nice fantasy. But in the end, that’s all it really was. A child’s dream, a happy ever after that was never entirely realistic. For the most part, it even worked out. Katie was loving NYU, his mother looked so much more awake and herself. Really, the only thing that changed was the part where Kent got to be happy alongside them. He had almost convinced himself though, that he could be happy making them happy.

And then that little shit came along.

Eric Bittle, number fifteen on the Samwell Men’s Hockey team - yes he googled, fuck you - was a problem. Because he wasn’t in the NHL, probably would never play outside beer leagues the second that diploma hit his hand in a few semesters, but he had Jack. _Jack_ , coming to a gay bar in Boston, seeking him out in a crowd, crammed into a dilapidated frat house every day, and he was _out_. Eric was happy, and there were probably negative chances of Kent getting anywhere near that kind of happiness.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks his mother apropos of nothing during their weekly phone call. It’s a testament to how well she knows him, has always known him, that she just lets him interrupt her story and says,

“Shoot.”

“What do you think would’ve happened if I went to college?” He can feel her shock. Kent had never even broached the topic of going to school, not once the possibility of going pro arose. From then on, it was all about hockey hockey hockey, and Kent graduated high school with a decent gpa simply because he’d always been a sponge for information and his teachers all went easy on the hockey kids anyway. But seeing Eric Bittle in the club, surrounded by his own stupid bros and managing to exist in hockey culture and queer culture simultaneously, looking at the way Jack seemed happier on the NCAA streams he couldn’t stay away from, smiling on the bench, leaning over with a face that said he was saying something chirpy to Knight...it made him wonder.

“I’m not sure. But I think you might have a theory.”

“I met this guy.”

“Oh?” She sounds far too intrigued.

“Not like that. Well, kind of like that but no.”

“Elaborate.”

“Um.” He sighed and dragged a hand down his face. “I almost hooked up with him at a club.” Exactly what every mother wants to hear. “Uh, he’s...he’s one of Jack’s teammates as it turns out.”

“Sweetheart, did something happen? Did someone see?”

“No, no. He didn’t know who I was. Until I told him. And he won’t say anything, he was just really...sympathetic? But also like...this guy is out to his team. They were at a gay bar in Boston together. My numbskulls just ended up there because it does eighteen plus fridays and they don’t know jack shit about Boston nightlife.”

“Was Jack there?”

“Yeah.” He can imagine the concerned expression on her face. “It’s fine. He stood right behind me but he didn’t even recognize me, but I’m fine because that would’ve been an absolute shit show if he had.”

“That’s good. That you’re at peace, that is, not...not the shit show part.” He stayed quiet because the silence felt like one of her thinking silences. “So you’re thinking that if you went to college you could’ve been out.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” It hurt to let the thought fully form, but there it was. Boy did Kent know what he was gonna be discussing with Deja this week. “I love hockey and my friends, but I keep wondering what it would’ve been like if I gave up something else instead.”

“I think there’s a natural curiosity about what would’ve changed if pivotal moments turned out differently.”

“Like if Dad stayed?” Mom took a moment to answer that.

“I used to wonder about it. Not so much anymore.”

“What did you decide?”

“That things could’ve turned out much better, but they also could’ve gotten so much worse.”

“That’s true of most things.”

“We dealt in extremes, your father and I. There wasn’t much room in the middle. I think that’s where you and your sister got your dramatic streaks.”

“So do you think I should let it go?” Silence again, heavier, followed by a deep breath in.

“I don’t think you have to let it go. You just have to not let it hold you down.” He lets that sink in for a moment, then says,

“Thanks Mom.”

“Of course. My job is never done.”

He turns his mother’s advice over in his head late that night, staring at the glow of his phone screen where he’s managed to track down Eric Bittle’s twitter account and has been staring at the page all evening. Bittle, it turns out, is fucking hilarious and Kent kind of can’t get enough of the way he talks about the weird shit the SMH guys get up to. It’s also painfully obvious that he’s in love with Jack, and some of the little stories have Kent thinking that Jack might be feeling it back, but the idea doesn’t hurt him as much as he’d expected except for how his heart aches for Eric. And, oddly enough, for Jack, but not in the yearning desperate way he’s used to hurting for him.

He hurts for Jack because he knows the gnawing fear of staring down the NHL and knowing that there’s never going to be enough love in the world to make coming out worthwhile. He’s been living the reality of choosing career over everything for the past five years and it has never gotten easier. So he keeps scrolling, trying desperately to focus on tales of Holster being too loud in public and Knight’s spontaneous nudity. If he lets himself focus too much on Jack and Bitty and the impending tragedy of their love story he’ll let himself get lost in their loneliness and end up on Grindr, which means that at some point he’ll have to get himself up off the couch and go be nice and at least half present. None of that is really a level of being a person that he’s feeling up to today, so instead he watches pottery making videos on Youtube until he falls asleep.

* * *

A couple days later at his weekly therapy appointment has him dredging up old shit yet again, because apparently Kent can’t even be in the same club with Jack Zimmermann without having some kind of existential crisis.

“And I just freaked the fuck out, it could’ve been a total disaster. If he didn’t happen to be such a nice guy, my career would currently be in flames, and somehow - somehow I’m still managing to feel sorry for _Jack_ of _all people_.” Deja makes a small humming sound and gestures for him to continue. “I mean how wacked is that? Like I manage to lose my cool over his twinky little teammate so hard I almost fuck a guy in a major hockey town _in a club full of my teammates_ and I’m sad about _Jack Zimmermann’s_ sad lonely boners? That’s fucked.”

“I think you may be oversimplifying a tad,” they put in. “But I appreciate that you’re taking steps to validate your emotions internally.”

“Thanks,” he says flatly, then runs a hand through his hair and lets out a huff. “So. Any words of wisdom about my mess du jour?” They smile at him, just a little. Kent feels a flicker of satisfaction; he knew they liked him deep down.

“I think it’s very good that you’re cognizant of the way Jack affects your emotions, especially that you actively try not to fall into old patterns of allowing his needs to supersede yours.”

“But?”

“But I think in this case you’re being a little harsh on yourself. It seems that part of what you’re feeling for him is just a natural empathy for an old friend who’s hurting. And for what it’s worth, hurting in a way that’s very close to home for you.”

“I do _not_ want to fuck a teammate, thank you very much. Like I know I talk about Swoops a lot but that boy puts ketchup on _cold sandwiches_ Deja. I’m talking ham and cheese - _boom_ \- bottle of Heinz. All up in that. Honestly if my heart and my dick are both on board with anything it’s the not fucking of my teammates.”

“I wasn’t speaking to that point in particular. It was more the frustration you’ve expressed in the past about finding love. You’ve been very cynical in that regard.”

“Well duh. What am I supposed to do, just find a boyfriend and then keep him hush hush until I retire? That shit might fly when you’re eighteen and lots of people are still in the closet, but I’m very firmly in my twenties now. People’s five year plans are going to start to include things like marriage and kids, not roof over my head and consistent orgasams.” Deja sighs and nods thoughtfully. Kent can tell appointments like this hurt them too. It must be tough to be a doctor that can’t offer a cure.

“I don’t pretend to know exactly what this is like for you, your career being what it is, but I hope you’ll keep yourself open to love all the same. Even if it isn’t in your immediate future, being closed to good things is never healthy.”

“Well, if those are the doctor’s orders…” He grins and the session draws to a close. Just as he does every week, Kent fights the urge to hug Deja goodbye at the door to their office.

As per his usual post-therapy routine, he leaves his phone on airplane mode until he’s gone through the In-n-Out drive-thru and gotten himself a milkshake (this week he decides on strawberry) and is safely back in his apartment. He likes these last bits of peace, the ritual of it just letting himself sit with his thoughts. When he’d first started with Deja, three appointments in and finally starting to really open up, he’d ended up calling them from his car in the parking lot after he turned his phone back on immediately and gotten entirely overwhelmed by all of the texts and emails and social media notifications that flooded his screen. He’d taken one hour for himself, and in that time had missed a hundred people vying for a piece of him. It was frustrating and made him feel guilty and he started to panic.

So Deja had suggested that Kent needed to take more time for self-care than just an hour a week. Therapy on its own wasn’t enough - Kent needed to make time to take stock of himself, including letting himself process what they talked about. After they talked him down, he’d put his phone back on airplane mode and driven around the city aimlessly for an hour because as long as he was driving, ignoring his phone wasn’t putting off responsibility. He was just following the rules. After their next appointment, he’d tried to do the same thing, but found himself getting frustrated with the pointlessness of the drive. Twenty minutes away from Deja’s office in the wrong direction from his apartment, he saw a drive-thru In-n-Out and decided this would be his destination every time. He could get a shake without having to get out of the car and barely having to look someone in the eye, and then go home.

Now, Kent kicks off his shoes by the door, hurls himself down on the couch, and goes back online. He sets the phone aside on the armrest for a minute, letting it vibrate away while the messages and notifications slowly load, and turns on Netflix. He resumes whatever episode of Parks and Rec he’d been using for background noise that morning and finally unlocks his phone to see what the damage is.

Email is nothing interesting, just a bunch of junk and a few press requests forwarded from Tara the PR intern, letting him know Cacey had picked these out of the latest pile and he should let her know which of them sound interesting so she can handle setting up the necessary meetings for him. Twitter is insane as always, but a cursory look at his DM’s and the accounts he has on alert shows nothing important is happening there. He scrolls through his mentions for the five minutes he allows himself daily, favoriting a few from fan accounts he recognizes and a couple of the negative ones just because...well Kent doesn’t always like himself either so, like, fair. Instagram is pretty much the same, except he lets himself waste like fifteen minutes scrolling through cat pictures because he was such a good adult today that he deserves it.

There’s a bunch of crap in the team group chat, but he doesn’t feel like he especially needs to check in on it, and none of the guys have messaged him privately except for Swoops, and that’s just a “dinner later?”

He texts back, “your place or mine ;)”

Swoops: lol u think i have groceries?

Parse: Be here at six, I’m teaching you how to make stir fry you heathen.

Swoops: dope

Swoops: how wuz therapy?

Parse: “wuz”?? That’s not even shorter you utter trashbag.

Parse: Who asks someone about their therapy appointment like that?

Swoops: nice deflection

Swoops: how r ur daddy issues?

Parse: Fuck you, man. My daddy issues are my business.

Swoops: srry?

Parse: !?!?

Parse: Jesus, you’re lucky I’m not actually mad at you. This shit is why you don’t have a girlfriend.

Swoops: lol ur my gf

Parse: …no…

Swoops: :’((((


End file.
